


confectionary

by wyverning



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Baking, Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M, Making Out, Post-Canon, shameless fluff, vague allusions to andrew in glasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 00:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverning/pseuds/wyverning
Summary: “This is awful,” Neil says as Andrew dumps multiple cups of sugar into a mixing bowl. “You can’t honestly expect anyone to eat that.”
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 8
Kudos: 290





	confectionary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poetic_ivy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetic_ivy/gifts).

> (coughs blood) i'm supposed to be writing my captive prince reverse big bang but instead i am consumed by andriel
> 
> a lil present for eli!

Andrew hasn’t _ said _ anything, but Neil still knows something’s up.

It starts with Andrew dragging him to the grocery store under the pretense of making out with him in the Maserati (a disgustingly dirty-handed move) and ends with multiple packages of baking ingredients.

It’s baffling, to say the least.

Neil has absolutely no idea why people spend so much time creating food when they could just by it conveniently premade, and says as much while Andrew shuffles around the kitchen, withdrawing cooking implements that look more like tools used to torture than to measure ingredients.

Trust him: he’s kind of an expert when it comes to that stuff.

At first, Neil thinks that Andrew’s making the food for himself. Usually, he’s satisfied by a few pints of ice cream and too-sweet chocolate, but Neil supposes he can’t fault him for wanting something new. If nothing else, it makes sense that Andrew hadn’t asked for assistance; he’s not in the habit of requiring help, and would rather set about doing things himself.

He decides that running commentary while Andrew tries to bake something is the best use of his time, and drapes himself over one of the kitchen stools as Andrew squints down at his phone.

“Your glasses are in the other room,” Neil suggests, grabbing a bag of chocolate chips and flicking them, one by one, in Andrew’s direction. It’s probably going to be a bitch to clean up, but that’s not _ Neil’s _ problem.

Andrew shifts from squinting down at his phone to squinting at Neil. Slowly, pointedly, he flips Neil off.

Neil grins and settles in to watch.

* * *

“This is awful,” Neil says as Andrew dumps multiple cups of sugar into a mixing bowl. “You can’t honestly expect anyone to eat that.”

Andrew mixes the ingredients together, looking unimpressed. Neil tips the stool backward so he doesn’t get too distracted by the flex of his arms as he turns the spoon in the mixing bowl.

There’s only so much Neil can do to try and rile him up. It’s clear that this is something he’s taking seriously, the determined glint in his eyes similar to when he’s actually working to shut down the goal.

His last attempt at distracting Andrew from his sudden aspiration of becoming a baker comes in the form of hiding various cooking tools moments before Andrew needs them. So far, he’s acquired two measuring cups, a spatula, and an entire package of flour.

It’s a good way to pass the time, at least until he’s smacked in the face by something cold and fucking _gooey._

“Did you just throw batter at me?” Neil asks disbelievingly. Some of the mess slides down his cheek and drips onto the floor.

“I was aiming for your mouth,” Andrew explains, like it’s totally normal to fling cake batter across kitchens.

Neil’s torn between a laugh and a grimace. “I’m telling Kevin we need a new goalie. That was terrible. I mean, the angle was wide open.”

Andrew glances down at the pile of cooking utensils and products in Neil’s lap, and then readies another spoon of batter. Neil’s hands fly in front of his face instinctively.

“Shut up, junkie,” he says, before eating the spoonful. He looks marginally less threatening with the handle sticking out of his mouth.

“Oh, god,” Neil moans. “There was raw egg in that. You’re disgusting.”

Things start to make slightly more sense when Andrew breaks out the food coloring and demands Neil mix it into the cream cheese-flavored jars of frosting he’d bought. (“You’re being a waste of space. Be less useless and mix these together.”)

Neil’s a pain in the ass, but he’s not about to be _ mean. _ He blends a ridiculous amount of food coloring into the frosting while Andrew pours batter into four different round pans, and wonders if he could get away with smearing some of it on Andrew’s face in retaliation.

(That isn’t to say that he doesn’t still whine, “But I’m not even going to eat it!” before he does it, though. He can’t make it _ too _ easy.)

Once the pans are in the oven, Andrew steals Neil’s idea before he can execute it, dipping a finger into the yellow cream and drawing a line down Neil’s jaw. Before he can protest, both about the mess and the idea theft, Andrew’s mouth chases the pattern, and then, well, Neil’s protests dissolve on his tongue just as the frosting melts on Andrew’s.

(An indeterminable amount of time later, Andrew pulls away, leaving Neil flushed and satisfied. He pulls the pans out and begins to ice them once they’ve cooled, and that’s when Neil puts it all together.

There’s no way Andrew’s about to write something as pointlessly tacky as _ Happy Birthday, Bee _ on the top of the sugar-loaded monstrosity he’s managed to bake, but Neil has a sneaking suspicion that the alternating yellow and black layers of cake will be enough to please her, anyway.)


End file.
